


1970: Roger

by LydianNode



Series: More Full of Weeping [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Crying, Friendship, Gen, Language, Smile Era, alcohol use, discussion of domestic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 20:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17629151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode
Summary: 1970: Roger has done something rash, and Freddie is there to help him pick up the pieces.





	1970: Roger

Freddie and Roger are more alike than they seem on the surface.

They share a dreadful little flat with unpredictable plumbing and walls scarcely thicker than their peeling wallpaper. Both of them claim to be students, but in reality they are fledgling musicians living together on a Bohemian diet of tinned beans on toast washed down with cheap beer. Each young man is aware that he is in a band that isn't quite whole. Freddie knows that his voice is the missing piece of Roger's group. Roger hasn't quite figured that out yet, but Freddie has patience and faith. 

Freddie likes to tell people that their market stall is all that stands between them and starvation. It's not completely true; Freddie could touch his mum for a fiver and be sure of receiving it in exchange for a kiss on the cheek. Roger has his own resources as well, although he doesn't talk about them. But the story is good. It's a mask. One of many.

Long hair, outrageous clothing, and all their other accoutrements are their masks. Freddie puts on an air of insouciance, calls everyone "darling," and cultivates an air of exoticism meant to camouflage a paralysing shyness that only Roger ever sees. In his turn, Roger toyingly seduces everyone in his path using a carefully-practiced wink, the fluttering of eyelashes that are utterly wasted on a boy, and caresses with hands roughened from a thousand hours of drumming. It's enough to fool other people into thinking that Roger is a heartless flirt, but Freddie isn't other people and he knows his Roger.

Freddie knows what to expect when he comes home: Roger's sounds. Usually Freddie will be greeted by the strains of a Hendrix record or drums (muffled by old bath towels so that the neighbors won't go spare), meaning that he's welcome to join in. When the flat is silent, it's a sign that Roger is either sulking or drunk and Freddie knows better than to interrupt. A barrage of random complaints indicate hunger, meaning that it's time to warm up some beans and make toast. In the case of the distinctive noises of fucking, Freddie goes right back out again and closes the door softly.

Today, Freddie opens the door and hears someone crying. He's prepared for it to be the latest girl who has discovered "her" Roger's philandering. Freddie has the post-breakup routine down pat: tea with a splash of brandy as the girl sobs onto his shoulder whilst he pats her back and tells her that Roger's just a twat and she's worth ten of him. He doesn't enjoy the task, but at least he's good at it.

He puts the kettle on before he even sheds his jacket and scarf, then saunters to the bedroom to find out if it's a blonde, brunette, or redhead that he's meant to console tonight. Rapping on their bedroom door is a mere formality; he opens it without waiting for an invitation and finds himself flat-footed with shock.

It's not a girl. It's Roger.

He's sitting on the floor, leaning back against the bed, fingers twisting in his shaggy hair. His face is wet, his eyes swollen and red. The collar of his shirt is soaked with tears and there are spots of blood on his jeans.

"My God, Roger, what's happened?" Freddie is at his side before he can take another breath, kneeling in front of him and putting his hands on Roger's shaking arms. Roger is biting his lip, shaking his head from side to side, unable to speak. Freddie leans closer and inhales. There's no smell of alcohol, nothing to indicate that this is just drunkenness gone bad. Besides, even drunk-off-his-arse Roger has never, ever cried like this.

There's no response, so Freddie starts checking for injuries. He grabs Roger's hands and immediately Roger lets out a sharp hiss of pain. Freddie is used to seeing damage on Roger's palms from drumming but there's nothing to see this time. It's when he turns Roger's right hand over that he sees it: raw skin over swollen knuckles. "Were you in a fight?" he asks as he inspects the injury.

Roger makes a wet, gasping noise as he nods. "P...punched him," he manages to get out between sobs.

Before Freddie can ask another question, the teakettle starts to shriek. Groaning, Freddie gets up, runs to the kitchen, and turns off the gas. He doesn't make tea, instead reaching into the fridge for the bottle of vodka someone left after a party. This isn't a tea kind of event. He also grabs some fairly clean towels and a tray of ice cubes before heading back to Roger.

Wordlessly, he hands the vodka over and Roger takes a long pull from the bottle as Freddie cracks the ice tray and dumps the cubes into a towel. "I hope to hell that's not broken," he mutters as he puts the makeshift compress on Roger's hand. "Should we get you to a doctor?"

Roger shakes his head. Tears and snot are all over his face. Grimacing in distaste, Freddie takes another towel and gently wipes Roger as clean as he can manage with fresh floods of tears still running down. When he's done he pulls Roger into his arms, holding tightly, and rests his cheek in the tangled blond hair. "Can't you tell me what happened? You're scaring me to death."

He can feel Roger's mouth move against his collarbone but he can't make out the words. "Roger, darling, I can't understand you."

Roger shifts so that his forehead is against Freddie's shoulder. "I punched him," he mutters.

"So I gather - but who, and why?"

Freddie is expecting to hear about some bloke in a bar making a remark about Roger's long hair. He's not expecting what Roger says next.

"My father. I punched my father."

Roger never talks about his father. He's mentioned being close to his mum and sister, but apart from saying that there was a divorce there's never been a discussion of anyone else in the family.

"What happened?"

Pulling back, Roger reaches for the vodka bottle and drinks from it again. He passes it to Freddie, who demurs, but Roger thrusts the bottle at him. "You'll need it."

Fuck.

Roger takes the towel and scrubs it over his face again. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are swimming with tears that are waiting to be shed, but he's starting to calm down. Freddie raises an eyebrow and sips vodka, waiting.

"He used to smack my mother around. And me."

Freddie reels at the thought of someone hurting a woman and a little boy. Roger starts to shiver, so Freddie takes off his jacket and scarf and bundles him up in them. 

"Eventually she divorced him. But it wasn't...I didn't know everything." Roger reaches for the bottle but doesn't drink from it, just holds it to his flaming cheek. "I was going through an old box of medical records today, looking for when I got my last tetanus jab. I found...that bastard...he'd been hitting Claire, too. She didn't break her arm on the playground at school - my fucking father did that to her. She was SIX, and he broke her fucking arm."

"God. That's...unimaginable." Freddie simply cannot begin to fathom someone doing that, can't in his wildest nightmares conceive of his father raising anything but his voice to him or Kash.

"So I went to his house, rang the doorbell, and knocked the bastard out cold." Roger moves the makeshift ice bag and looks down at his swollen hand. "It didn't hurt until I got home."

For an instant, Freddie wonders if they're going to have a policeman turn up on their doorstep to arrest Roger for assault, but decides it's best not to give voice to that thought. He tugs sharply at the blanket on Roger's bed and pulls it down around his shoulders. When Roger slumps against him, Freddie holds him close, rocking gently back and forth.

"I should've protected her," Roger sobs, clutching Freddie as if he were a life preserver. "I'd have done something, but I didn't know! I should've been taking care of her! Why didn't they tell me?"

"You were just a little boy." Freddie has seen pictures of young Roger. What sorrows had lingered behind the wide blue eyes and sweet smile? "There wasn't anything you could have done, darling."

"That's even worse." Roger breaks down again, all but howling in frustrated grief. "Christ! I was USELESS! Still am! Fuck it!"

"Ssh, ssh, none of that. I won't allow anyone to say such things about you. Not even you." Roger lets out a damp giggle and relaxes his hold just a bit. Freddie starts humming little snatches of tunes to him the way he does when Roger is drunk or ill.

"I'm sorry, Freddie," mourns Roger. "I thought I'd be done before you came home. I didn't mean for--"

"It's okay, love, it's okay." Freddie pushes Roger's damp hair away from his face and looks into his eyes. "Let's get some antiseptic to put on your poor hand, then I'll make you tea. Meanwhile, get your kit off and get under the blankets."

Roger's smile is a little woozy but he obeys, removing the borrowed jacket one-handed as Freddie heads for the bathroom. Their medicine cabinet is stocked with mercurochrome - Freddie loves the name and how it rolls off his tongue - and gauze, along with some Midol that Mary had left "just in case." Obviously that wasn't exactly what they needed, but it would have to do. 

Whistling softly, Freddie goes back into their bedroom. Roger is in his bed with the covers pulled up to his chin. He's still pale, but at least he has stopped crying, and he gives Freddie a sheepish glance as he holds out his injured hand.

"This might sting a bit," Freddie warns as he gently dabs mercurochrome on the split knuckles.

"A BIT?" complains Roger, scowling furiously. There. That's the Roger he knows.

Freddie smirks at him. He finishes his task, wrapping the damaged hand in gauze and neatly tying the ends off. "It'll stay on as long as you avoid doing anything too STRENUOUS tonight." He almost regrets the innuendo until he sees Roger's smile breaking through like sunlight after a storm. He hands Roger two pills, grateful that his eyesight is too rotten for him to read the label, and Roger swallows them dry. "Good boy. Now, shall I make us some tea?"

Roger reaches for him with his undamaged hand, grasping him by the wrist. He blushes as he asks, "Could you just stay here for a while? With me?"

"Of course." Freddie looks wistfully at his own bed on the other side of the room, but he can sleep tomorrow night. Tonight he toes off his shoes and climbs in next to Roger, not quite touching him but not quite staying away, either.

It reminds him of his family's flight to the United Kingdom, how little Kash used to cling to his side as they made their traumatised way across foreign lands. He didn't resent her then, and he doesn't resent Roger now. In fact, he wonders if knowing that Roger bears tragedy in his past will strengthen their friendship even further. Freddie loves being needed, being considered strong and trustworthy. Being useful.

He listens to Roger's breathing as it slows and deepens, the rhythm moving from allegro to adagio. When he's certain that Roger has fallen asleep, he drapes one arm across his waist and anchors his hand to Roger's chest. If Roger awakens during the night, he'll know that Freddie is still there. And Freddie will know that Roger is safe.

They both need that security.

They're more alike than they seem on the surface.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lydiannode - come talk to me!


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